Stuck with You
by Semi-Functional Eraser
Summary: Serana was well and truly stuck (by choice) with the Dragonborn, a freelance Imperial officer by the name of Commander Shepard. It could be worse. She could be looking after his house and fending off a lineup of annoying intruders. Oh wait... she was. "My name is Commander Shepard, and Serana is my favorite vampire in Skyrim!"
1. The Problem with Thieves

" _I'm_ stuck _with you_ ," _the vampire sighed._

 _The Breton-Imperial man nodded once, somehow managing to make the slightest curve of a smile look extremely smug. "Indeed, and I must say that I wouldn't have it any other way."_

 _She looked away at his blatant comment. "Wonderful…" she replied. "I suppose I could say the same… but I won't," she traded, gleaming alabaster fangs peeking passed her smile._

" _Wouldn't have it any other way," he repeated, smile growing wider._

* * *

Serana was stuck with Shepard, the Dovahkiin, by… _choice_ more than anything. Had she known she'd be stuck with annoyances in the form of giant attacks, wolf attacks, bandit attacks, house-sitting, and the fourth attempted break-in of said house this week… well, she still wouldn't have left, but she would have retained the right to complain a lot more.

Outside of the home, a grand building named Lakeview Manor for its enviable view of the lake of Falkreath Hold, Serana stood in front of the simple stables that housed Shepard's horse. His name was Mr. Sparkles.

She rolled her eyes. Of _course_ he would be named Mr. Sparkles.

The horse had been with Shepard since she had known him, since he had retrieved her from the crypt that had been her prison for, apparently, thousands of years. He was obviously intelligent, or maybe Shepard was just insane enough to think he was, because he'd frequently get into discussions with him.

Serana smiled at that. She liked the horse. It was polite, and helpful. It was more of the type to trample any hostile animal rather than run away, as was typical of a hardy Skyrim horse. As such, she had fed Mr. Sparkles a bit liberally today… and it was going to pay off… now.

In the recessed corner of the stables hold, a blonde thief clad in black thrashed viciously against her binds. She had so many pockets Serana considered calling her 'pocket princess', but making annoying nicknames was always more of Shepard's thing. She'd (jokingly) be more inclined to call her 'food'.

"I'm going to fucking _kill you_!" The thief yelled at Serana. "I'm going to take your bones and use them as lockpicks! I'll use your _skin_ as ledger paper! I'll-HGRRRPMHMPHMHPHM!"

Grunting noncommittally, she silenced the blonde thief's mouth with an old cloth. She wasn't particularly sure where the cloth had come from, but she knew it wasn't clean. And she didn't remember the woman's name, but there was no forgetting that _voice_. She was certainly imaginative. And annoying.

She thrashed, bound and now gagged, struggling to escape her bindings. Serana had taken care to confiscate all of her weapons and tools and, after a moment of consideration, had left them on Shepard's desk. He'd likely want to sell them if he didn't throw them into the lake, but it was honestly a fifty-fifty chance.

Now that she had some peace and quiet, finally, Serana barely paid attention to her. She would have left the room if Shepard had warned her to be on the lookout for thieves, specifically this this woman, who was apparently one of the best.

"Keep her away from doors," Shepard had said. "She's a jailbreaker. Good with locks." Serana did, so she put the thief in a stable. No locks there.

Mr. Sparkles kept the woman warm, but it wasn't a _good_ kind of warm. Serana may or may not have fed him a bit overmuch. For what it was worth, the golden stallion seemed to be a bit bashful and sheepish as he made her hair billow, not that the would be thief cared, and the poor steed's flank sustained several scathing glares. To wit, Serana stood a good deal of distance away.

The children Shepard had taken in were tucked in, unless they weren't, and Serana's ears twitched on reflex at that moment. She couldn't _hear_ anything, but she smelled them, and so her ears reacted, compensating for her inferior senses. She smelled soft milk and sweets, bread and dirt from playing outside. The house was going to be a mess from their playing today.

The door behind her peeked open; the smell of home-cooked meals and warmth wafted out into the area that surrounded Lakeview manor. It was a scent Serana hadn't taken long to learn to appreciate. They were certainly much better than Mr. Sparkle's flatulence, which were, luckily, downwind from Serana, and the death knells of a blonde, boisterous, bitch of a thief huffing said horse farts.

Briefly she turned, and saw a little girl. What was her name? Lucia? Sofie? Runa? All the boys were asleep now – they slept like little rocks – but there was always the one girl who'd roam the night like her adoptive father, peeking into every crevice and chest, barrel and drawer, looking for treasure. She wore a reddish-purple dress and her hair was done up in a braided ponytail. Her face looked… a bit like a potato, with all of the baby fat that surrounded it.

Serana finally recognized her by the curious, guileless look in her eyes. The look was a lie. The little girl was as crafty as Shepard was, if not more devious.

"Sofie," she said blithely, affixing the burnt pits of her eyes to the small child. The girl did not react as Serana hoped she would – she opened the door further and stepped out, holding little shoes in her hand. Serana frowned; she never thought she'd miss it when the kids thought she was the scariest thing since a giant mudcrab, but their lack of reaction was _almost_ insulting.

She smiled as Sofie stepped out onto the stone stoop and, after jumping a bit at the cold stone against her barefeet, hurriedly put her shoes on. The vampire most certainly did not show a bit of her fangs just to frighten the girl, and that was just as well; Sofie gave her a blank look and blinked at her, and then entirely ignored the action that Serana would consummately deny she ever took.

Serana sighed and turned away from her, knowing that the girl wouldn't listen to her because she was just like her father, and turned back to the blonde thief, whose threats had died down considerably. The rag likely tasted absolutely awful, if for no other reason than being in a horse stable. At least she wasn't unconscious. Small mercies. Serana doubted she was the 'glass half full' type.

The thief looked to be trying to oust the dirty cloth from her mouth while simultaneously shutting off her olfactory senses – a process that obviously wasn't working, as her eyes were rolling into the back of her head and a bit of frothed spit started to seep from her mouth. Serana suddenly realized, with a smug and yet disgusted detachment, what exactly the cloth had been used _for_.

Apparently, so did Sofie. " _Eww,_ is that the rag Blaise used to clean the floor?!" The little girl cried, a bit over loud.

Serana smirked. It wasn't _just_ that, it was the rag that was used to clean the alchemy lab after that latest mishap involving chaurus eggs and giant's toes, with a bit of blisterwart for flavor. Serana couldn't see the blackish ichor that stained the rag in the dark, but she could well remember it, and judging by the thief's disgusted expression, _she_ could taste it. Serana felt no pity for her.

"Go inside. _Now_ ," Serana said, turning her attention back to the little girl briefly. She knew it was pointless.

"Alright," Sofie said, and promptly stepped off the stoop and walked over to her, causing the deceptively young looking vampire to sigh. The tiny girl tugged gently on her robes. "Why is that woman in with Mr. Sparkles?"

Briefly, Serana thought about lightly smacking her hand away, but not only would the child tell her father, but her father would endlessly tease Serana about being a cantankerous old bitty, 'just like her mother'. And then she'd stick her tongue out at her. _Ugh._

So, Serana weathered the small hand like it was a punishment, despite the growing smile on her face.

"She… is his betrothed," Serana said slowly, and then with more conviction as her smile grew into something predatory. The thief's eyes narrowed with the promise of death, but Serana feared no such thing… usually. The eyes turned to the little girl and Serana stepped in front of her instantly, her hands glowing with the cold aura of ice, but it was fortunate for the thief that her eyes had lost their edge before even that.

Sofie immediately ignored the protective action and went up to the golden horse, her tiny arms reaching up to pat his face. "Is that true Mr. Sparkles?" she asked. The horse whinnied like it could understand her, and knelt down so she could run her muggy little hands through its mane. "Is she gonna be your wife?"

The horse snorted and Serana knew the jig was up. Not because she could speak horse, but she could feel its eyes glaring at her, as well as Sofie's. The precocious child put her hands on her hips and pouted. "Mr. Sparkles says that's a mudcrab-tit of a lie!"

Huffing at the fact that the girl had obviously been taking Shepard's lessons to heart – namely the lessons on how to curse like a drunken, illiterate sailor – she rolled her eyes. "Why else would she be sharing a _room_ with him then?" She asked as if it was obvious and gestured to the horse, who scoffed more than snorted and turned away from her.

Sofie looked at her as if she were stupid. "That's a _stable._ Mr. Sparkles doesn't like rooms, they're too small."

The horse knelt down and, like he was holding an elitist conversation with the little girl that Serana was obviously not invited to, bumped her shoulder slightly, causing her to stumble. At that Sofie walked closer to the stable than Serana thought was safe and the vampire moved to pull her back, but she put her hands on her hips and spoke. "I think… she's from the Thieves Guild. Her jacket… I've seen Papa wear have a black one just like it."

" _How_ do you know what the Thieves' Guild is _?"_ Serana asked incredulously and dragged the apparently gormless girl away.

"Runa told me. She grew up in Honorhall orphanage. Brynjolf would drop off sweets when Grelod wasn't paying attention," Sofie shrugged.

Serana raised an eyebrow at the thought of Shepard having the clothes of a dead man. The thief's black armor was packed to the nines with pouches, no doubt for storing gold and jewels. Serana could tell by comparison that she was one of the higher ups from the Guild, as Shepard's 'official' armor was brown, not black, before he had left.

The only armor that Sofie could be talking about was the armor of Mercer Frey, and for Shepard to have that man's armor just didn't sound like Shepard. Steal it, yes. _Selling it for the highest price imaginable_ (and sometimes stealing it back) was even more likely, but not having the clothes of the man who betrayed, and subsequently tried to kill, him. Shepard always remembered slights against him too well for that.

"Yeah, Papa took it and rolled it around in mammoth dung and set it on fire," the girl explained.

Ah. That sounded more like the Shepard Serana knew.

"She tried to break in to the house," Serana said after a moment of looking between the woman and the girl and noticing that, for what it was worth, the master thief wasn't fixing her partner's daughter with glares that could kill. They were by no means friendly, but it was a point in her favor for Serana not to slowly bleed her dry, nonetheless.

" _Again?_ This is the fourth time this week! _"_ Sofie exclaimed, her voice going high and her face screwing up into a mask of confusion. "It's getting ridiculous!" The child raged.

Serana smiled in amusement at the girl's antics. The child paused, then turned to Serana after giving the thief a headshake usually only reserved for something pitiful after Mr. Sparkle's let out a world rattling gust. "I think… I think I know why?"

That caught Serana by surprise. Just how clued in to his life were Shepard's children? She felt a brief and unwelcomed bout of jealousy at that. Contrastingly, Shepard didn't tell her much; she supposed though, that that was because he usually didn't need to. Usually what he saw and fought, she did too, as they were rarely ever apart.

Sofie didn't wait for her to ask and instead scurried back inside. Not a minute later she came back out with a pouch that had a note on it. The note read, in Shepard's inelegant handwriting, _"Vex's loot. If she comes by looking for it, toss it into the lake,"_ in large, easy to read letters that the thief could see and growled at.

"I'm surprised that's all he said," Serana muttered, and Sofie turned the note over. The vampire grinned. " _'Also, toss her in the lake too'_. That sounds like him," she said, but doubted he truly meant it.

Sofie was next to her again, tugging on her robes. Serana sighed and looked down at the brunette child. For once, she had an expression similar to sadness, but it was closer to longing, both things the vampire was sickeningly familiar with. "I miss him," the little girl said.

Uneasily, Serana laid a hand on her shoulder. She wasn't good with children, and hadn't interacted with one before meeting Shepard's in… millennia. As she had quickly remembered, most children were loud, annoying, and, in the case of one little girl in Whiterun, had a deathwish. Serana hadn't been like that as a child, and yet that was hardly a comforting memory to recall.

She didn't understand _how_ Shepard could handle six children, but he did. He adopted them all and gave them a home and, she was more than willing to admit, he was a good father. But that wasn't saying much coming from her, as her father had been… bad enough to justify getting his remains pissed on by Shepard.

But it wasn't to say he was lackluster either. If she were a child, Serana would have wanted Shepard as her father more than anything and- no, that was a jar of worms she didn't want to open. She was conflicted enough as it was concerning him. No need to bring her daddy issues into it.

"He's not dead," the vampire woman said, rather bluntly and quickly. "He hasn't even been gone that long, either. It's been two days."

Sofie glared at her. Obviously Serana's criteria for fatherhood, rather a lack of one, involved a father being distant, gone, and gone with distance for a considerable amount of time, and isolating his children by insisting they treat their friends like cattle. This… wasn't applicable to Sofie, Serana realized with a miniscule wince. It didn't take long for her to consider that maybe, just maybe, Sofie missed Shepard because… she _missed_ him. Because it was strange for him to be gone this long, and he was that good of a father for her to miss him so soon.

They were rarely ever apart. Ever the adventurer, Shepard always took his children with him whenever he traveled and spared no expense for their protection. It had become a wondrously common sight for Serana to be next to him while they were surrounded by a small army of summons, atronachs and spriggans both. It was a foolish bandit or mage or mercenary, or assassin that would try to attack them. Especially when he had a couple of dragon at his beck and call.

Not faltering whatsoever underneath the gaze of the girl, but simply deciding that the thief, Vex, made for a better sight, Serana turned. "He'll be back soon."

"Do you think he's alright?" Sofie asked quietly.

"I just said he wasn't-" Serana stopped. Shepard might not be dead, but… she had been with him during some of the hardest fights she had ever personally fought. Watched him restore flesh burnt to bone with nary more than a hiss and a string of curses that made her wonder if he wasn't at least a little insane to be so blasé about it, or give life back to frostbitten flesh while telling a joke so bad she couldn't help but to shake her head. He certainly _wasn't_ dead, he couldn't be, but there was a good chance that, knowing him, he was _dancing_ with death right then, and she wasn't there with him.

"I think he's having a good time," she said finally, frowning slightly as she thought of the 'fun' they'd get up to.

Sofie seemed mollified by that and decided to nuzzle her head into Serana, which the vampire took offense to. She wasn't some large stuffed toy! Not that the child even noticed or cared, she was _hugging_ her. It was… an odd feeling. Her arms weren't anywhere near as large as Shepard's, or as strong, but there was that feeling there that she hadn't felt in a long time, one that even her mother had failed to elicit.

 _Caring. Family_.

"Are you okay?" the child asked, her voice muffled by Serana's robes. The vampire really wished she didn't; she smelled like a crypt and probably had the worst type of dust and blood on her person. If the kid got sick, Shepard would get worried and, though he wouldn't blame Serana, she would still feel like he did, and deservedly so. Then she'd have to take care of her, and if she spread the sickness to the other children, which was likely since they'd never be apart for long, the vampire would have one big headache.

She knelt, more to stop the girl from stuffing her face in the coattails of her robes than to give her a hug, but Sofie took it as an invitation to hug her more anyway. Serana could hear her heartbeat and smell the blood pulsing through her veins, but not once did the thought of hunger flash through her mind. Slowly, she hugged the girl back, finding it considerably more difficult as she was about a sixth the size of her father and Serana's arms completely encircled her.

"Do _you_ miss him?" Sofie asked quietly.

Serana snorted. "No."

To that, Mr. Sparkles neighed loudly and beat the ground with his hoof. Sofie pulled back and gave her a disbelieving look that didn't quite work with a child, but Serana stuck to her blade. "I don't miss him because I know he'll come back. And if not, I'll chase him down and drag him back."

The declaration was disingenuous; she couldn't _physically_ drag him back, vampire strength or no, but Serana had developed a way to do it by tilting her head and staring at him. She was sure he was only humoring her, but it was still extremely funny to watch him throw his hands up in the air and yell, _"Fine!"_ and then they'd travel together again.

" _I knew you'd miss me."_

" _I thought that was obvious?"_

"You miss him a little," Sofie said succinctly, and nodded to herself. Serana rolled her eyes. She made to turn, but the child wouldn't let go, and so she turned anyway and stood up and Sofie was dangling from her neck like a small branch. "Ahem."

Serana gave her a look. "You take after your father too much."

The little girl smiled smugly at that. " _Thank_ you."

Sighing, Serana picked her up – the wrong way she was sure – and the child made no complaint. She curled up against her for warmth, which Serana thought was a _stupid_ idea, as she was the living dead and cold as ice. Shepard would do the same thing, and it said nothing good of his intelligence. Unless… it did? She was unsure if Shepard was acting like a child, or if his child was acting like _him_. For a woman that had quickly lost any desire to resemble her father, the connection intrigued her.

"…I'm going to throw her in the lake now," Serana said, wondering if it'd be enough to get the child to stop. Vex was still as, in the corner of Mr. Sparkle's stable, there wasn't a lot of circulation. The air was stale and she either stopped breathing, wished she had, or had slowed it considerably. Serana didn't need light to tell that she was turning a sickly forest green.

"Can we have some crème treats later?" Sofie asked, obviously having no problem with the threat.

" _No,"_ Serana sighed exagerratedly. "You're supposed to be asleep. You're lucky I don't toss _you_ into _bed_."

"Apple pie it is, then," Sofie chirped.

' _I don't even know how to make apple pie,'_ Serana thought. Shepard's attempts at teaching her ended rather badly, mostly because after the first four attempts she had lost any desire to keep trying, despite his claims that they were consistently better. She scoffed at that, and she scoffed now. "You're on your own there," she murmured, and quickly corrected yourself. "And by that I mean _no trying to make any on your own!"_ She glared at the girl and received a deceptively innocent smile in return. Serana suddenly wanted to pinch her cheeks, knowing she likely was going to try to do the exact opposite.

Sofie hummed at that, barely paying attention, and slowed her breathing. Within seconds she was _apparently_ out like a light and Serana was stuck with the largest adolescent necklace any vampire would ever wear.

"Never considered Shepard for a ' _family'_ man," a gruff, disgusted voice said after a moment. Serana looked in the direction of Vex, who had finally gotten the disgusting rag out of her mouth. She was still bound though, and so didn't much garner much of Serana's concern. She wouldn't dare go close to stuff the rag back into her face with Sofie with her, though.

Vex was obviously calmer, though that was likely because of Mr. Sparkle's weaponized gas and her lack of breath quickly tiring her out. Regardless, her temper had cooled. "I was thinking to myself, ' _What dumb_ bitch _got drunk enough to spread her legs for him this time'_?" Vex sneered.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised it turned out be a nightstalker," she said, in a very pot to kettle way.

Serana raised an eyebrow. ' _This time?'_

"Someone sounds jealous," she observed, readjusting the small child against her chest.

"Of you? No. I'd be as dumb as him if I ever thought being a vampire was a good idea," Vex scoffed. The insult bounced right off Serana, but she turned, the glowing firepits of her eyes piercing the darkness to stare at the blonde woman, and the aura of life and the thrum of blood that emanated from her. She wondered what it would look like as it slowly seeped away.

"Still, shacking up with one of _you…_ He always did have a knack for dumb ideas," the thief taunted. "Makes me glad we got rid of him."

Serana made no move to reply, but she did know that Vex, supposedly, was the reason Shepard was no longer part of the Thieves' Guild. And that 'rabbit-dick of a Dunmer'. Vex had claimed that he screwed up a job, which Serana sincerely doubted since Shepard had proved to be one of the best thieves she had ever seen, if not the best.

An argument arose when Shepard demanded payment and _someone_ had (almost) died. What was his name? Dust? Dung? Door? Dirge! Dirge the doorman had been burnt to a neat crisp and Tonilla the fence was forced to drink from the cistern of the Ragged Flagon by Shepard himself or drown, and Vekel the Man had gotten a bottle of Black Briar mead shoved up his black briar. Supposedly, after that he stopped selling it. It caused bad rashes, so it couldn't be good for customers.

Naturally, after such a thing he was faced with two possibilities: pay a hefty fine for assaulting Guild members or leave the Guild. For what it was worth, Shepard's fellow Nightingale Brynjolf didn't sound like he liked the idea, nor did Delvin, at least going by what Shepard had said when he told Serana. Still, Shepard refused to pay and left. The only contact he'd had in the last months with the Guild was through a partner Nightingale, Karliah, a sneaky Dunmer that would sometimes just… _appear_ at the manor. Serana didn't _not_ like her, but she didn't like her either.

What Shepard _had_ told her was that he was running interference against the Guild for shits and giggles. He was undoubtedly their best thief; he had killed Mercer Frey singlehandedly and brought the Guild back to prominence in Skyrim nearly all on his own, so disrupting their jobs by stealing everything in sight and spreading the valuable marks to any merchant that could afford them wasn't a tall order.

Thus the sack. Vex's loot resided therein, and that was likely why she was here, to retrieve what had been stolen from her. A thief losing to a thief! Serana huffed in amusement at that.

"So, tell me," Vex whispered conspiratorially, leaning forward and to the side to avoid Mr. Sparkle's flank, "Did he make you scream yet? Because I have to admit, it's one of the only things he's _good_ at. He'd be better off as a male whore with _that_ thing in his-"

She was trying to get a rise out of her, Serana mused. Maybe get her angry enough to drop Sofie and go over to her and throttle her, or if the vampire insults were any clue, to try and suck her dry. It might have worked at one point – Vex proved to be considerably more insufferable than Isran and his hatred of all things vampiric in this short time she had known her – but she had indeed screamed, silently, because of Shepard. Vex was insufferable, but Shepard was a trial of his own that made her look like a little mudcrab in comparison. Yet, he hadn't made her _scream_ in the… physical sense because Serana hadn't let it go that far, despite her multiple considerations.

"Oh I see," Serana said dryly, "You came back so you could have one more roll in the hay with him. Just like old times, right?" She stared at her, unblinking and yet managing to convey how pathetic of an idea she thought that was. "Well, you have the 'in the hay' part down, but I doubt he'll consider you like _this_ , if ever."

She glanced down at Sofie and saw her looking up at her, awake, before she hurriedly closed her eyes. She smirked.

Now Vex could take an insult too, but she was obviously in possession of a short fuse. "I have my standards," she said bitterly.

" _Obviously_. And apparently Shepard meets your standards, though why he would settle for you is _beyond_ me," Serana returned airily as the blonde bared teeth blackened with ichor at her.

She turned, walked to the door, and opened it. Inside wasn't a hall as most manors would have, but a mini house, complete with a rather large bed and a firepit nearby, as well as a shelf stocked with books. Uncaring that the thief was seeing inside, she laid Sofie down onto the bed and covered her up, pretending to fall for the girl's attempts at appearing truly asleep. Then she turned back and lobbed the heavy sack of gems and jewelry at Vex, hitting her right in the chest. To her credit, which Serana didn't care in the slightest about pass her lack of desire to harm these children, Vex barely made a sound.

"Take your gems and go." The vampire ordered, knowing Shepard wouldn't want her to kill the thief. She bared her teeth and allowed her hands to turn into sickly gray claws, a precursor of her vampire lord form. "If I see, smell, hear, or _think_ you came back here, I won't be tossing you into the river. I'll be tossing your _heart_ into my blood pudding the next time I get _hungry_."

There were a few ways to terrify people. Nords such as Vex were witheringly stubborn, a trait that Serana didn't particularly share, despite being a Nord as well. Still, she was at least a little visibly cowed as Serana's fangs lengthened and her hands glowed with ice, and small spears of frozen water collected at her fingertips with the promise of impalement. Still, vex was a thief, prideful and consummate, despite being inundated in horse gas, and said nothing.

"See yourself out," Serana waved at the stable, and walked inside, shutting the door behind her. A Master thief wouldn't have any problem escaping those binds, and if she did, well… Serana didn't care.

Stuck in the darkness, Vex writhed through the ropes with only the faint howls of dumb wolves and the shimmying of a horse to keep her company. When she finally got her hands free, near the break of dawn, a fowl, eye watering wind broke in her face and she saw the nine divines staring at her with pitiful looks reserved for a pitifully dumb child.

She collected the sack and briefly entertained the thought of breaking in to the house just to show she could, but she wasn't being paid by the Guild to fight a _vampire_ , just to collect their marks. But she was confident she could win… probably. Nevertheless, she was disarmed and hadn't invested overmuch in magic, so the only spell she could do was a paltry flame spell that would be used to keep her warm during her trek back to Riften.

She spat at the horse and considered stealing it, but Shepard's steed was nothing if not loyal. For that reason alone she growled at it and it blew stinky horse breath in her face.

"Stinky waste of- Hmph, Mr. Sparkles. _Dumb_ name," she grunted, and took the path away from the manor at a brisk walk, the bag of loot jingling at her side.

In the morning, Serana would go outside and find her gone, and with her, the headache she brought. Good riddance. Now she just had to work on cleaning the kitchen after Sofie's attempt at making a pie.

* * *

 **Short, sweet idea that popped up to me. I always liked the relationship between Serana and the DB (well _my_ interpretation thereof). Also, Vex is a bitch. I don't hate her, but she is. Anyone who has ever had the infuriating experience of completing a job and having her claim you flubbed it, this is for you. **

**And Vekel (smarmy bastard), Tonilla (all we really care about is how much money you bring us, we won't help you if you're in trouble), and Dirge (the dung-kicker)are... well, I can't put ' _making strangling motions_ ' into words very accurately. Strangleable?  
**

 **This was, other than exorcising the idea from my head, an attempt at telling a story through another character's POV and having it be very telling. I tried to give some glimpse of what the Dragonborn and Vex and Sofie (so adorable, they all are), through Serana's eyes, as well as how Serana might feel being a apart of a family, and her relationship with the Dragonborn.**

 **Who is named Shepard after, you probably guessed it, Commander Shepard. Funny story if you care: when I got Dragon Age Inquistion I had just gotten off a Mass Effect kick and tried to make Male Shep there. Turned out pretty nice, so imagine him for the Dragonborn.**

 **For now, this will remain a oneshot, but I had an idea of Shepard becoming the host of a genderbent Alduin, jinchuuriki style. Probably won't go through with that. Maybe some Secret agent Narfi. Poor guy deserves it.  
**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	2. The Problem with Rorikstead

**_This_ is what I do when I want to update a story. I update a completely different one.  
**

* * *

Running into and dealing with a secret cult of Namira worshipers in Markarth hadn't been fun, exactly, and after the two day surprise excursion, all the Dragonborn wanted to do was go home. He hadn't been home in days, and he was getting antsy. Perhaps even paranoid, but with good reason.

 _Two_ days. It had been two days, but that was already too much. If not because he wanted to see his children again, and he very much did, then because he just knew that _Serana_ was being driven insane by them - and that was something he very much wanted to see again. The vampire princess just wasn't used to children, he knew, and was far more at home skulking around a crypt, scaring adventurers for fun.

She'd only done that once, but he was never, ever going to let her live it down. He liked her enough to save her from the torture of being pestered for a 'really, really, really old, ancient, forgotten story' because she _was_ so old, but not enough to forgo repeatedly mentioning the time he'd seen her pop out from a tomb and scare Valdir half to death in Falkreath Hold. The Dragonborn didn't like _anyone_ enough to not do that.

His feet carried him quickly, and his desire to see his family again, and to see how perturbed Serana was, carried him even quicker. The trek from Markarth and back to Whiterun Hold was cut in half because he had places to be, and they included Falkreath Hold, Lakeview, and _home._ The Last Dragonborn wouldn't let anything get in his way. If it tried, it would be cut down.

He'd arrived in Whiterun Hold, Rorikstead, by sundown and planned to continue through the night. Rorikstead, he remembered, was a place that the Whiterun Guards claimed to be 'a nice enough little hamlet'. They were lying, but Shepard could understand why. He'd put his head in the clouds, say giants were attractive, and Falmer might make excellent bedmates if he was stationed there too.

When they spoke of it – _Rorikstead_ , _a place without walls and with thatch roofing,_ so romantic – it gave the impression that death loomed over it with a waiting hand, and not just because of dragons.

While Riverwood was little better in terms of defensibility from flying lizards, it was homey and held a special place in Shepard's heart. Mostly because it was where he had found his bent for the subtler art of misdirection, but at least it had a wall.

Not a tall one, but enough that if a dragon decided to crawl inside it, it would only have one way to crawl through, and it'd have to knock on the gates to be invited in.

Two ways, but it could always fly in and land on top of one of the buildings, as dragons so tended to do, making all walls quite functionally useless.

...Riverwood was doomed, but Rorikstead was even more so. Shepard could respect a guard's ability to see the good in an otherwise dismal situation, even if they were only fooling themselves.

Upon arriving at the outskirts of Rorikstead, he was greeted with more tired warmth and frantic eagerness than he had expected. Two guards quickly ran up to, and ushered him from, the edge of the village after having recognized him as the Thane of Whiterun Hold, though the first man to slay a dragon in centuries would be known by appearance, and held in high regard despite being of Imperial descent.

They smiled and limped toward him, looking far more genuine than the rictus grins given by the Whiterun Guards that spoke of Rorikstead. It wasn't necessarily an improvement. "Rorikstead is a nice enough little hamlet," is what the guards had said.

As he was being escorted by two bloodied and almost dead on their feet guards, Shepard disagreed vehemently.

The escorted him, but it wasn't a sightseeing venture. Houses, what few there were, were streaked and marred with blood, though a cursory sniff showed it to be animal blood… and urine, which was an interesting choice to be sure, but not as much as the wide gashes in the doors. Those in particular, he noticed, could have only been made by a very poorly made axe, an oblong stone hatchet or something similar.

Grass sat burned and the crops absconded with or simply torn from the ground, something no self-respecting farmer would have done, and the festering corpses of cows lay slaughtered in the fields, gouged out for meat, fur, and left for the buzzards.

This wasn't a nice little hamlet. It was a ghost town, and that wasn't nice at _all._

The shambling guards gave no explanation. Their bodies obviously disagreed with their walking and they were slower together than Shepard had been alone, and in the eerie silence that hung over the seemingly abandoned village, Shepard could hear their labored breaths.

All he had wanted to go home and see his family after dealing with a bunch of insane Namira-worshippers that tried brainwashing him into believing he ate his sibling as a child. It had been a long two days, and this was not what he wanted.

He could hear a Whiterun Guard's voice in his head. "Rorikstead is a nice enough little hamlet," the man had said, but the tone of his, and any other guard's, voices, the way they became vehement, gave the opposite impression.

"If you don't mind the threat of the Forsworn, or the sabre cats, or the pack of giants and their mammoths… The brigands… the skeever infestation by Gjukar's Monument and the road toward Solitude… the wolves that ally with the sabre cats… oh, and the flat, cold, unyielding land. That you have to _sleep_ on, because the Inn only has three rooms for _some reason_. Yes, it really is a _nice enough little hamlet."_

No one had ever mentioned that the hamlet was under siege, however. That would have been nice to know. Shepard could deal with the land looking quite miserable. Most places were a far cry from the temperate air around Lakeview, and while Rorikstead was little better than Windhelm in terms of personality, it still beat Morthal and its surrounding area. His standards weren't so high that he couldn't have made do with it.

The reason the guards hadn't mentioned that Rorikstead could fall under siege without _any_ apparent aid was obvious. Guards, by and large, were idiots. Whiterun Guards just happened to be the brightest of the bunch.

The two guards at his side acted more like shields than escorts, covering him poorly as he towered over them. Shepard kept the pace for their own good and surveyed the land, seeing stubborn ground that even more stubborn residents had forced to bear fruit, which now lay gouged and torn, and formerly flat plains were haphazardly burnt and ruined.

He recognized the hectic burn patterns as a chase, and not just any chase. This was the chase of a fire-wielding mage and the insatiable, unquenchable bloodlust that led to the murder of numerous things, even little bunnies. By an untrained mage, likely, because they popped off and attacked anything, even their own sometimes.

Rorikstead might have been miserable but livable at one point, but now it was simply miserable and, if Shepard's guess wasn't wrong, almost dead.

One of the shambling guards stumbled and Shepard caught him, a stout, dwarfish treetrunk of a man with messy red hair and a beard almost as long as the man was tall. His armor was less so and more of thin cloth with chainmail, and torn besides, revealing a poorly bandaged, but healing, scar on his arm. It was still soaked with blood, but it was his injured leg that was the problem. His knee buckled and he growled through grit teeth at it and continued to try to stand.

Shepard could tell was a Nord. Gently, he put the man's arm around his shoulder and hefted him easily, the strength of the Dragonborn not bowing to the weight of any person.

The other guard, a woman taller than the man but short besides, guarded them from behind, having unsheathed her sword. She was short, with sloppily cut short blonde hair, and her blade was the same as her, no more impressive than her armor. Iron, cheap and simple and dull looking.

"My Thane-" she started, and her voice was dry, though not from a lack of drink. This was from someone who'd been cautiously quiet for a very, very long time.

"What is your name?" He asked. The girl sounded like a younger Lydia. Hopefully, she would have a better attitude.

"F-Fralta, my Thane," she fumbled.

He didn't stop moving or turn to see her. They were halfway to the Inn where he supposed, in the event of an attack, people would flee to. Strength in numbers, and so forth. "What happened here, Fralta?"

"The Forsworn happened," she said, her voice laced with anger and disgust. Shepard repressed a groan. He just wanted to go home.

* * *

Arriving at the Inn preceded a special knock on the door from the injured guard, as if it was enough to keep the Forsworn out. The reapers of the Reach were waging a campaign with terror and itwas working. They wanted to make the villagers quake in their boots and wait for death in the corner, and had done exactly that.

The door glowed slightly around its rim, sharp and elegant, but undecipherable letters pulsing with power before the Destruction schema dropped. It was a lighting rune, or at least it was supposed to be. It was impressive because it was designed as a ward instead of the standard magical trap, and a powerful one at that, carefully etched into the doorway.

More importantly, it was something he _didn't_ know how to do, and that made him even more interested.

Fralta continued to bring up the rear as Shepard easily hefted the man he was carrying. Her movements became more confident and assured. It was obvious she felt much more at ease now that the Thane of Whiterun, _Dragonborn_ or not, was at their backs, or rather at their front. He was aiding them, and they'd be _alright._

With slow, strafing steps, she guarded their backs as Shepard opened the door.

The silence was so thick that the noise the door made as it opened cut through the air like a rusty knife. Immediately Shepard could feel several pairs of eyes, more than eight at least, on him. People jumped, and in the tense air that followed, no one moved save for himself.

He moved by the fire and set the injured guard down next to _another_ guard, already present and laying on the floor. Fralta closed the door behind her and Shepard began to count.

 _Three._

The guards, all _three_ of them, were now inside the Inn, along with the rest of the ' _nice-little-hamlet_ '. Meanwhile, the Forsworn were outside, and that wasn't a very good thing, but for the villagers, it was still better than being outside with them.

In the following silence, Fralta began to speak in earnest, further imbued with confidence now that she was inside the apparent safe haven. She was still quiet, but it was obvious she was attempting to imbue the people with her feeling by beginning with, "My Thane." The _Dragonborn_ , the _Thane of Whiterun,_ was here, she meant to say. They'd be _alright._

And it began to work. People looked up and started to whisper amongst each other.

Fralta was shaking from her anxiety, but looked up at Shepard with wide, admiring eyes that made him uncomfortable, though he didn't show it as her small but solid voice carried through the Inn. She told him how the Forsworn had been slowly expanding their territory since word of the attack in Markarth had reached the other holds. How the _massacre_ in Markarth – that Shepard neglected to mention happened because he wanted to escape their prison – and get back at the Silverbloods and their corrupt guards – had emboldened them.

Viciously, they turned their sights to the nearest settlement, bloodthirsty, but _smart_. Sentries on the roads prevented the guards from sending for help. They had boxed the entire village inside like cattle, abducted Rorik, the owner of the land, and left them to stew in their own fear.

To everyone else, all was well in the wall-less village. Inside Rorikstead, it had been hell in their last days. It had been a week.

Afterward, Shepard was silent. These Forsworn were not governed by Madanach, the King in Rags. Being an honorary Forsworn himself, at least to the Rag King's tightknit circle, he knew for a fact that the Reach 'royalty' wasn't so reckless. He was smart, chaotic even, but not sloppy, and not stupid.

This siege was fueled by the admirable desire to take more than what was given, or earned. To _steal_ , raid, and plunder. Shepard didn't feel the least bit hypocritical when it reminded him of Mercer Frey, a man with the cunning of a Hagraven and the integrity of a sex-starved one, which was _all_ Hagravens.

The Guild, and Shepard himself, weren't in the business of killing as they stole, even Vex, surprisingly. The Forsworn were much like Frey. They strong-armed and massacred. They were brutes and thugs with a dresscode and DIY weapons, and in Frey's case it had been SIY.

So, the Dragonborn's welcome wagon into the village had come about not in the form of excited greetings of the local out-of-the-loop guards, but by a bloodied two of them scrambling when they saw him. Not just in relief that he had arrived, but also in fear that he'd be struck down when they needed him, their Thane, the most.

What _a_ Dragonborn could do against a roving band of idiot maniacs, Shepard wasn't sure. At least, he wasn't positive on what Tiber Septim would have done. The Last Dragonborn had just wanted to go home, but now his plans would involve magic. How to make a sword disappear in some place unpleasant for someone else.

As the Inn began to louden with whispers, one in particular wasn't so enthused. Shepard watched a lanky, balding man in worn looking clothes rise up from behind the counter where the Innkeeper sat. He approach an old man in fancy clothes who was had to be someone of importance, though it didn't take an expertise in gauging a mark to know that.

The balding man watched his words carefully as he spoke, but it was obvious he did not like the man. The older man was also a mage, a trained one if his calm, meditated demeanor said anything, even as the balding man who Shepard endeavored to refer to as Balder from then on, whispered vehemently to him.

...Or what he thought passed for whispering. Choice words such as, "Crazy!" and "Get us all killed!" and "Forsworn spy!" were tossed around quite audibly before the sudden mention of "Freakish magic!" and "My _daughter,"_ were said, and neither word was said with fondness. The old mage almost imperceptibly scowled.

Shepard flushed the conversation out of his mind for the time being and looked sidelong at Fralta. The young girl sat on her knees, anxiously fiddling with the hilt of her blade. "What are their names?" He asked quietly, gesturing to the two guards by the fire.

"Ngh, I can _talk_ ," the guard he had carried said, with obvious effort.

Shepard poked him in the shoulder at that. He choked back a childish scream. "You can, but you shouldn't," he said simply and turned back to Fralta. "Their names."

"T-Teffir," she said, pointing at the short one who grumbled to himself about "Damn archers." She pointed at the other guard next and her voice quieted. "Okir…"

She quieted because the last man was barely moving. His breathing was shallow and he was almost dead. He hadn't been moved because moving would have done more harm than good, and Shepard moved to get a better look at him.

Fralta was barely more than a girl, but Okir was little more than a boy. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes closed in what had to be an unpleasant sleep. He lay limp against the stone floor, clutching his side, his entire person bloodied and beaten.

"He wanted to be a hero," Fralta whispered. "After they took Rorik, he-"

"The damn idiot tried to take the fight _to_ them," Teffir grunted.

"He was trying _to help,"_ the girl hissed, her jaw clenching.

"Look where it got him. Rorik's gone, and he's…" Teffir shook his head. "Should'a been me."

It was obviously a conversation they'd gone through before, and Shepard watched as Fralta sighed. "Okir's… a new recruit. Newer than me, at least. He wanted to help. The Forsworn made him an example. Teffir tried to go scouting for help, and they-"

" _Archers,"_ the man growled, and then moaned in pain. "Right in the _damn knee._ My adventurin' days are over, _"_ he tried to laugh, but it was a weak one. Fitting considering it was a weak joke.

"And I… tried to take on one of their mages when they were alone, taking our crops," Fralta said. "I got away mostly unscathed, but-" She grimaced and looked away. "The crops… that was my fault."

"Better the crops than being burnt to nothing, girl," Teffir grunted. "You got your licks in."

"What _good_ it did me!" She hissed quietly. "They have _magic_ ," she seethed, and shook her head. "The damn mage was healing after every hit," she held up her sword, disgusted, "and this piece of junk wasn't doing _anything_."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "You don't like magic?"

"Don't like it when it's bein' used to burn our food, that's fer sure," Teffir grumbled.

Fralta pursed her lips. "My parents… they didn't like it. ' _No true Nord'_ , and all, but…" Her eyes fell on Okir's barely moving form. "Akatosh, we could use some now."

Shepard nodded. He didn't doubt that the boy had been left alive simply to tell a story. Stories of survival were only passed on by survivors. He had quite a few himself. Damned bears.

He began to roll up his sleeves. "How do you feel about Elves?" He asked.

"Friggin' ugly as all hell," Teffir said with a pained laugh. "'Cept those High Elf women. The Dark ones too. And the Woodies. An- well, I'll take em all. Even the Orc chicks. Thick in all the right places, they are. _Mmf_."

Fralta laughed softly, but sadly. "Take is right. Not like any would have you, idiot-dwarf."

"My dreams of havin' an Elf princess will come true, girl!" Teffir snapped, and then hissed as he held his arm. "Watch!"

Fralta shook her head. "Elves are like everyone else," she said, looking at the ground with a distant, empty gaze. "They live… and die. What matters is their actions." She looked at Okir. "The _only_ thing that matters is our actions."

Shepard looked at the girl approvingly for a second and nodded. "I met an Elf once. Just the once, never seen one before or after, since," he said smoothly, and Teffir chuckled. Shepard looked at Okir once more. "He was tall, taller than me even, taller than a High Elf for sure, and as pale as snow. Nice guy."

He cracked his knuckles. "Old, like elves usually are. Told me something interesting." He held his hands over Okir's form as Fralta and Teffir's eyebrows knit together in confusion, momentarily distracted by his commentary. "Akatosh… Auri-El."

As his hands started to glow, Fralta's breath hitched. "W-What?"

"He said _Auriel._ Auriel, Auri-El. Apparently it's all the same. In spirit, at least. I decided to take his word for it. 'Respect your elders', and so on," he said, even though he never gave Serana that type of respect.

He focused his attention to the boy's body, though it didn't require it. The wounds were bad, yes, but only for a normal person. So, bad for poor Okir.

They were a far cry from being snapped at by a dragon, and chomped on by a dragon, of course, but their danger came from the Forsworn's disgusting, savage excuses for weapons. A fine weapon, like one made by Shepard himself, left clean, debilitating cuts that hindered, subtle but deadly. Even Fralta's blade would have been better, though it was so dull there'd be more of a hacking, sawing motion just to get it to cleave.

The Forsworn's left gashes, sloppy and ragged, with skin torn and sagging, bone exposed. Shepard could see it intuitively as the spell spread through the lad's body, suffusing him with Restoration magic and dipping into every wound, every sickness, and routing the lot of them.

It _was_ bad, _very_ bad, but again, only for a normal person. He came to the conclusion that the only reason the guard hadn't been healed further was because the local mage hadn't the skill. At the very least, the only reason he wasn't dead yet was because of the old mage.

It wasn't a shameful thing to admit – Restoration was a _very_ harsh school to master. It took years, a certain exposure to injury, be it one's own or that of another, and lots and lots of gold for training, travel, and emergency potions.

Or, in the case of a Dragonborn, simply an overly ridiculous exposure to injury, as well as friends who happened to be Masters of the school. One of whom happened to be friends with the god of funeral rites, and the other a plucky teacher at Winterhold college.

All the same, this task was nothing for him, though he chose not to expedite the process. The spell was soft and comforting, leaving a melodic hum and pulse as he cast his glowing hands over doomed flesh. Beneath the clothes and with his magic diving in and emerging out like fish in a stream. He saw it, felt it re-growing painlessly, though that only because it was so slow.

There was a lot of blood, even more of it lost, and though he could have healed the man's woes with little more than a snap of his fingers, the pain from his entire body being sewed back would have doubtlessly been… _unpleasant._ Taking into account what the boy had tried to do, The Dragonborn refrained from doing that.

Florentius and Colette had said he was a Master of the Restoration School as well, but to him it came down to a matter of experience, as magic tended to do. Destruction was how well he could destroy things; Illusion, how well he could fool things; Conjuration was how well he was at _getting_ things; and Alteration with how much he could change them. Restoration was simply a matter of how good he was at _not dying,_ and Shepard Trevelyan was well experienced in that art.

As the seconds passed, the entire Inn watched in shock, Fralta's hand going to her mouth and Teffir sitting up straight as his eyes widened. Okir began to groan and cough, his breathing become louder and more stable after a brief eruption of ragged breaths and whimpers.

Then, it all quieted down to even inhalations and soon the only sign of blood was his shredded clothing and the soaked floor. A big sign, but only in spirit. Shepard pulled away. The boy was as right as rain, though possibly scarred for life to the prospect of putting his life on the line.

Frowning, Shepard corrected that with a tempered, variant spell from the Illusion school. The glowing green bolt collided with the boy's form and jolted him wide awake.

Now without the haze of encroaching death, Okir's face regained his youthful appearance and he looked more like a boy than Shepard expected. His hair was crusted with blood, but his eyes were opened wide and a deep blue, full of youth. He made to stand up as the spell worked through him, his chest puffed up and his shoulders squared, and then he promptly fell on his ass. He was fast asleep in the seconds it took for the spell to take effect.

"Can you say it?" Shepard asked, looking at Fralta. " _Auri-El?"_

The girl swallowed, her eyes comically wide. "Au…ri…" Her face crumbled. " _Thank you."_

"Hm, I don't think divines mind nicknames," he muttered innocuously. "Don't take my word for that." He turned to Teffir. "Alright, your turn," he said.

There was always the option of healing them both, but Shepard knew he lacked the refined skill that Colette and Florentius possessed to do it at any level less than 'overkill'. He had power, yes, but because he didn't have the years of education behind his experience in the school, he didn't possess the finer points of it. It would come in time, but in the meantime, there was no kill like overkill, and no heal like overheal.

However, healing more than one person at once was just similarly as unpleasant as the act of being rapidly knitting back together only one person, and Shepard didn't want that for the guard.

"Dibella's fine A!'" Teffir shouted, obviously less shell-shocked than his fellow guard. "That Elf teach you this?" He asked excitedly. "Ya think he has a sister, aunt, something? I'm not picky."

"I doubt he is either," Shepard drawled and began to heal the man, starting at the knee. "His entire family is dead."

The man quieted. "Oh."

"He didn't teach me this, no, but it was because of him that I renewed my interest in the Restoration school." Shepard paused. "That, and the threat of death."

"Nothin' wrong with wantin' to live," Teffir said, though soon grit his teeth as the magic worked through him. It was uncomfortably ticklish at first, SHepard knew. "S'better than nothing."

"I heard that," Shepard grinned. "Saves a bunch on potions and medicines too."

Teffir let out a squawk of indignity. "Ya gots to teach me!" He said. "We barely get paid enough to buy a potion a month back in the city! Arcadia is a pig-swindler that thinks everyone has the rattles!"

Shepard pulled away from his leg and moved it up to his arm, but the gash there was comparatively shallow and was healed within seconds. Teffir kicked his leg back and forth, grinning like a child in the sun… a child that happened to have a long, red beard.

"I'm not a very good teacher," he said. "I know a couple, though." He turned around just as someone, the old mage from before, stepped up to him.

The old man smiled gratefully at him. "Your reputation precedes you, Thane."

Shepard looked up at him as he approached. Bald and wrinkled, the old man's eyes were tired, but kind. Shepard was already disinclined to trust him, if only on principle. He'd trusted Mercer Frey who, despite being a mudcrab-dick, a hard ass, and an out an out troll-tit from the getgo, looked like a boss who did good work.

Work that Shepard had _trusted_ in and was eager to get done, so taken in was he by the Guild's camaraderie despite Tonilla the Fence's words. It had come back to bite him when it was time for Mercer to stab him in the back, frame him, and, almost as importantly, _steal all of his_ _stuff_.

Frey had been one extreme that he'd never forget. The consequence was that Shepard was now wary of the other extreme. Frey was duplicitous, this mage could be as well, and Shepard wasn't intent on being double crossed just because he'd let appearances speak first and actions speak second again.

The mage had protected the villagers by setting up defenses, possibly saving the guard. _Fine_ , but Mercer had kept the Guild afloat, just barely, while he stole from all of them and likely shagged Maven Black-Briar, the sick bastard.

Black-Briar herself put up a front to stand for everything good in Riften, as paltry as it was, and the sheltered Jarl fell for it. Shepard wouldn't have been surprised if this mage turned out to be Forsworn himself.

His distrust was inward however, and perfectly hidden. Outwardly, Shepard smiled a charmingly disarming smile, the one that had made it so easy to not go to bed alone, even when the only women were like Vex, and then Vex herself. She'd said it was a stupid smile, but no one listened to her.

"What reputation is that?" He asked, his voice of the upper crust. Torturing himself by listening to Erikur and Maven had their benefits. "The reputation of saving damsels in distress, or kicking chickens? Because I'll have you know, I did _not_ save that Khajiit princess. She was too catty for me."

Teffir barked out a laugh. "The Thane of Whiterun has a sense of humor! Whoulda thought?"

Smiling, Fralta quieted him. "Quiet, Teffir, Thane or not, we're not out of the woods yet." She moved to Okir and set him up on her leg. "Not yet…" she whispered, looking at Shepard while she thought he wasn't looking. "But we're _going_ to be."

The mage smiled. "The reputation for helping those in need when they need it the most, actually."

Shepard frowned. _One_ naïve comment to that would-be bard in Whiterun followed him around wherever he went, and it all started by giving gold to the local stray who, despite being adorable and now being his daughter, didn't know how to feed herself the right foods to save her _life._

Lucia had spent it on honey and candy before he had enough sense to reserve room and board for her.

"Does this 'reputation' mention that I charge per person in need? Because I do," he said, giving immediate pause to everyone as he looked around the room. "Nine," he nodded to himself. "Plus the added fee of being healed by a teacher of Winterhold."

Fralta was the first to speak. "You're a-"

"A freakish mage?" Shepard said as he looked directly at Balder, who sat behind the Innkeeper's counter still. "Yes. I've been told my 'kind' doesn't have a place here." Lydia had said that once, though not to him. She was ashamed of herself for it. He thought it was a funny thing for a Nord of all people to say.

Fralta's expression was very similar to what Lydia's had been. She cringed. "No, I-" she started, and then frowned, looking more worried as his words set in.

"I… don't think it did," the old mage said softly. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement, Thane, I-"

But something else caught Shepard's attention. From the corner of his eyes he saw two, small heads peeking past a doorway to one of the rooms caught his attention. His eyes darted to them and narrowed.

The Whiterun guards had been right, there were only three rooms. He scoffed – this was ridiculous.

Two little girls, likely the daughters of Balder, with two sets of wide, frightened eyes, small hands, and bruises that normal people wouldn't be able to see on their bodies were obvious to him. The larger one shivered and ducked behind the wall as he looked right into her eyes, but the smaller one simply stared him down, her eyebrows knit together in a small, doubtful frown.

They bore into him with purpose, and doubtful at _what_ , Shepard wasn't sure, but she lacked the expression that Fralta and Teffir now wore, which was one of disappointment and silent betrayal. Shepard didn't want to be bothered by any of it. It was harder than he expected.

" _Eleven,"_ he said, and looked away from the child. "That's _eleven_ people, which is quite a hefty fee."

He looked at the ceiling, the roughly crafted furniture, and whatever else could be construed as a display of wealth, which wasn't much at all. Rorikstead wasn't a well-to-do village at all, but they made do.

"Added to this of course, is the boon of being treated by a Winterhold mentor such as myself," he said, but left out the part where he was, technically, the Archmage. No one needed to know that. "Yes," he said, and turned to smile fully at the old man with his eyes narrowed dangerously with pitifully fake greed, if only to himself. "I believe we _can_ come to an arrangement."

The old man was silent, but Shepard wasn't willing to allow himself to be fooled. While there was a chance that he was genuinely good, which would be _fine_ , Shepard was genuinely good at not forgetting a hard earned lesson.

While the mage was silent, another wasn't. Shepard watched with as, behind the mage, someone stood up. It was a young man with messy red hair, fresh faced and green despite the maturity that his beard suggested. Next to him, the Innkeeper barked at him. "Erik, sit down!"

"No, dad, I can't," the boy said, but Shepard doubted that. He very much could, but the bravado a Nord has, boy or not, tended to make them more prone to doing something stupid, and likely dying, as he was seeing now.

The boy, Erik, glared at him, looking betrayed, though Shepard was unmoved. "You're the Thane of _Whiterun,"_ he stressed, as if the title itself was supposed to bring forth something special.

Aside from the ability to viciously and repeatedly reprimanding Nazeem and conscripting him into guard duty, which no one ever complained about, Shepard couldn't think of a single thing. Buying property, rubbing elbows with the Jarl, flirting shamelessly with Irileth, who was far too used to it… nope, sorry, nothing.

"You just _saved_ people!" Erik shouted.

"Coincidence, I'd wager," Shepard lied poorly. "It's in the job description." It wasn't.

But the young man was having none of it. "You stopped a _dragon_." Shepard narrowed his eyes. He didn't like where this was going. Stopping a _dragon_ was _storybook_ , it was-

"They said you were a _hero!"_ He cried, and Shepard inched the bridge of his nose. "You helped people in need only to _extort_ them? How can you be so heartless? So _craven_?"

"Easily," Shepard said, stepping to him and dwarfing him soundlessly. The young man came up to just past his shoulders as, even to Nords, he was taller than most. "Ask yourself this, lad," Shepard said evenly, "Does doing the work of Mara for no pay help fill your belly? Keep you warm? Protect your _family_?" If the answer is no, see my previous answer: Easily."

It wasn't necessarily a lie. Honest work had never brought the same amount of coin as, say, routing an entire bandit encampment, but which was more of the Goddess of Love: Doing honest work and not harming others, or doing dirty work so others wouldn't be harmed?

He didn't particularly care about the answer, but it was a fair argument when people who thought sellswords were all heartless and craven. Perhaps many were. He wasn't one of them.

Erik blinked up at him, momentarily shocked and cowed, but then he bit back a growl and turned away, and the Dragonborn was satisfied with that.

He turned back to the old man, who shook his head sadly, and clapped his hands. "Alright," he said jovially, as though the betrayed and broken spirits of those in dire straits weren't all around him, "about that _fee_."

The mage hung his head. "Yes," he said. "I'll do what I can to pay. Anything." It was more than Shepard had hoped to hear. He felt slight relief go through him. Being wrong was good, sometimes.

Shepard tapped his chin and began to pace. " _Eleven_ people. That's a hefty price tag, you know," he repeated, grinning at them all. "Obviously the first thing I'd ask for is a fair maiden's hand. That _is_ what heroes usually receive as a reward, yes? Someone has to teach her how to use a sword." He paused. The double-entendre hadn't been intended, but he went with it and it seemed to go unnoticed.

He looked at the Innkeeper's son, who stalked back to his father and glowered at him, and then at Fralta, and winked at her. Her once hopeful doe eyes had dimmed as she looked up at him, and then, seeing the wink, some of it returned. Teffir watched him carefully, unsure if the smirk starting to emerge was well-suited or not. But he had caught the little joke, that much was certain. Somehow, Shepard wasn't surprised.

"Then of course, there's the _septims!_ " He rubbed his hands together greedily. "I think… five pieces is fair, to start," he said, and then started to count his fingers. "And a bag of elves ear, no offense to the fair Altmer in the back, of course, and no actual ears, no. A bundle of _wheat_ , and a jug of _milk_. I have no idea why you Nords are so, so stubborn, honestly. Also, some eggs."

A silence fell over the room. "….What?" Fralta asked, absolutely confused.

"I'm hungry. I could really use some food. He," he gestured to the old man, "Is a mage, and judging by the alchemy lab over there, you have reagents. Do you honestly expect me to pay for food when I'm short…" He peered into his pouches, which were fat with gold, their jingles muffled by a spell, but no one needed to know that. "…five pieces? I'm insulted. I know you Nords don't have a high opinion of Imperials, but I'll have you know one of my grandmothers was Breton. _"_

The old mage's smile was back on his face before the guard's jaws had hit the floor. "I am Breton as well."

Shepard scoffed. "Well, you all look alike to me in this weather. Redguard, Breton, Nord… Balder, over there, whatever he is," he pointed at the sputtering man. "Pale and half frozen. This weather is _miserable."_

"It has its thorns," the Breton agreed, and bowed again. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement," he repeated.

"I hope so, my stomach is killing me," Shepard smirked at the guards. Fralta grinned widely and Teffir began to laugh. He looked at Erik and winked, as if he was in on the secret too, and soon the boy was all teeth and teeth and smiles.

"Jouane Manette," the Breton said, and bowed for a third time.

"Shepard Trevelyan, at your inconvenience," Shepard said as he grabbed the man's hand and shook it. He turned to Teffir and grinned. "Now, what was that about a sense of humor?"

* * *

 **Sometimes it's hard to help myself. Especially when the muse breaks in and beats you over the head with little moving mind-movies until you do something about it. Shepard's voice is totally the British Inquisitor's voice, which reminds me to write a story for that, too.**

 **I never like putting OCs in stories because I'm just not good at it, but the guards don't actually have names. Then I thought of a skirt chasing dwarf with a heart of gold (that now worries me that I accidentally lifted something from LoTR (haven't watched the movies in years, honest)), and a girl who decided "Hey, I'll protect people!", and a boy who had the same thought and paid for it. Apologies if OCs are a turn off. But hey, refractory periods exist for a reason!  
**

 **Next chapter, whenever, will likely involve mudcrabs, Valerica, and Serana's awkward conversation with her mother about why she's living with a man with children.**

 **Something like-**

* * *

 _The ancient vampire looked at the greasy handed, grinning little boys and narrowed her eyes. Valerica's eyes narrowed further after she bared her fangs and the boys only cheered. She almost felt_ insulted _and knew, somehow, that this was Shepard's fault._ _  
_

 _"Shepard," she grunted. She gave her daughter a withering look. "You... have children with him?"_

 _With an inward sigh, Serana stared her mother in the eyes. "Yes. Yes I do," she lied._

 _"Unbelievable," Valerica muttered. "After so long, I'm finally a Grandmother. Do you have any idea how awful this is?"_

 _"Mother!"_

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	3. The Problem with Valerica

**Anyone ever hear of oyakodon? Yeah, thanks Japan. Now in vampire flavor.**

* * *

For what it was worth, Volkhiar Castle now belonged to Valerica. That wasn't worth much at all; it was scarcely more than a ruin, just as attractive, and it was _all hers_. It was empty save for the piles of dust that had once been other vampires. She was on the fence about that. It certainly didn't do the property value any favors.

She didn't feel anything for the fallen vampires that died during an attack that, she assumed, came from those who finally tired of Harkon's antics. The Dawnguard. Those vampires had been shortsighted and foolish enough to blindly follow Harkon and paid the price for their stupidity.

Even without the Dawnguard raid, Valerica witnessed the aftermath of Harkon's rage after she fled the castle so long ago. Once, the castle had once been luxurious. Now it was almost in shambles and barely functioning. It was a sty. And it was all now hers _,_ thanks to her daughter.

And _him._ Her voice tumbled from her mouth like fine gravel, hoarse and exhausted with the thought of him. "Trevelyan."

Valerica was, unfortunately, acquainted with the name. Also unfortunate was the fact that it now held weight. He was no longer a namless vampire hunter in her eyes, destined to die for tricking her daughter and pretending to care for her safety. Trevelyan had saved her daughter, returned her to the world, was the fact that she was still aliv _e_ , and more or less prevented the eventual genocide of her people.

She just hoped he wouldn't get a swelled head about that.

Valerica still doubted him and his intentions. She was almost positive that he hadn't saved Serana out of the goodness of his heart – she didn't believe in such things, there was always some ulterior, or even supporting, motive. Even she hadn't locked her daughter away purely for her safety, but for the safety of vampires as a whole. Serana's life being at stake because of the Prophecy played a major part, yes, but she wasn't deluded enough to not realize it was one of the many things she and her now deceased husband were polarized on.

If she hadn't been entirely pure in her desire to keep her daughter safe, Trevelyan couldn't have been either. She was Serana's _mother,_ her teacher and mentor. He was just a vampire hunter with delusions of grandeur and saving the world. Though, she supposed, it said something that he managed to succeed.

He wasn't just a vampire hunter either. He was the Dragonborn. That tidbit lost its luster by pure virtue of Trevelyan being the Dragonborn. Of all the people to be 'blessed' – Valerica shuddered, the word making her feel odd – it was a man tasteless enough to make puns.

The child of the chief, "Dov-ine." …That man was insufferable.

Not for the first time Valerica roamed the lonely halls of her castle. Shepard's place in the raid was certain and she could see the signs left behind. Spectral arrows that she recognized as his from the Soul Cairn. There was also the peculiar effect of a fire spell she did not recognize, one that left white ashes and scoring marks instead of blackened ones. The chief of these signs was Harkon. Harkon was dead.

That was enough to make her smile, even if it was in the same breath as the man who killed him.

Serana possessed a… antiquated moral compass that removed patricide from her list of abilities. She hadn't gotten it from Harkon, though Valerica knew Serana hadn't gotten from her, either. It couldn't have been from her maternal grandmother either, Valerica shuddered.

Shepard had done it, and… that was a small relief. Serana was the most precious thing Valerica had, though she frequently refrained from showing it, even when the girl was a child. Shepard, _Trevelyan,_ she corrected herself, saved her.

The man who used her daughter, to destroy her father, saved her life in the name of… something. Friendship, perhaps, though Valerica was suspicious and put off by the intimacy they'd shown each other in the Soul Cairn. But perhaps it was genuine, and if it was… her child deserved no less.

All thoughts ceased as Valerica entered the shrine of her patron, Molag Bal. The wrought iron gates rose loudly and she smelled it before she saw anything inside. The smell of dust, old blood and old things… and urine.

Her usually stoic expression began to shift and crumble and Valerica stalked inside the room, paying little attention to the bloody pile of ash that had once been her husband, in the center of the room. Her eyes flit around and she surmised he had likely inducted new blood into the clan here from the shrine of Molag Bal.

Valerica stepped in front of the shrine and, seeing what was in it, she took a sharp breath and stepped back, her eyes closed. New blood would no longer be inducted here. Harkon's ashes didn't just lay on the ground. Inside the bowl where they once drank from, her husband's remains sat… soaking in urine.

Unsure whether she should be enraged, disgusted, or amused at the final fate of her husband, Valerica's lip curled up in a sneer. She turned, her cloak flapping audibly as she began to step outside the room, vowing to bar it off for the time being, but stopped a mere two steps later. She smelled something else, now. Something familiar, but… something _delicious._

She sniffed the air with her keen nose. The smell was enough to make her sniff again, and again, and again and before she knew it she was gulping in air to keep the scent coming. Now that it was there it overrode the acrid scent of urine. Valerica's eyes flashed and dilated, the dying ember pits of her irises reigniting and her claws elongated.

 _That smell…_ blood. She hadn't eaten in so, so long. It had been beneath her to feed on Shepard. Serana would have objected, but Valerica had no mind for it. But now that she had a scent, and _what a scent it was,_ Valerica was _salivating._ She wondered if her sense of taste had died in her years of hunger, because this was _delicious._

She panted, moving her fingers, now greyed claws. It was… intoxicating. It was without origin because she was alone in her castle, like some twisted princess or queen, and with no meal to sate her. But the blood smelled fresh and that was _not normal._ There was no one foolish enough to roam nearby, she would have certainly been aware of them. The blood from the raid was coagulated. Harkon stunk of _piss._ This was _different_ ; whatever creature this blood belonged to was rare – their blood was still so fresh, still so _warm_...

Valerica's eyes, shining like the pits of a fire now, zeroed in on the source. Her black sclera overtook nearly every part of her eye as the color shrunk to almost nothing. She was at it in a second, her blur of motion a testament to her power. The blood, the sweet, _delicious blood_ was just a splatter on the wall, a stray remnant left there carelessly.

She hissed. Who could do such a thing? Her stomach ached and the corners of her vision began to blacken with want simply by tasting the same air that belonged to it! What fool could leave it alone?

Valerica caught herself. She was the one being a fool. She breathed in deeply, though this didn't help. She needed to calm herself but she knew that wasn't going to happen. It had been _so long_ since she experienced a bloodlust, since she had _hungered…_ and that was its own , special, type of pleasure.

She teased herself. It was torture to be so close and not to taste it, to touch it. The splatter was indeed fresh, it hadn't even dried – still perfectly ready to be consumed. Her sustenance, her joy. Her fangs hung in her open mouth and Valerica lapped at the air, her lips, and moaned. Could she? She was being no better than a _fledgling!_ It was mere scraps on a _wall,_ it was beneath her! But… it smelled _so_ good…

Her tongue reached out. Time was slow for Valerica as she watched by the centimeter, her tongue coming ever closer to it, She didn't care about the wall, she didn't care about the shrine, she just wanted to taste it.

And she did. When her tongue touched it a shiver ran down her spine and her hoarse, throaty voice erupted from her throat. Barely having enough mind to retract her fangs Valerica attacked her meal with gusto. For once she would need no coaxing, she wouldn't need to use her fangs, all she would have to do was _suck._ There was a certain amount of shame it doing it like she was, but that was dismissed by how _good_ it felt as she sucked and slurped, scraping her tongue along the wall like a fledgling at their first meal. Her heart , to her shock, actually _beat,_ and Valerica felt heat where there hadn't been for so, so long.

She could picture it so _perfectly:_ how it must have felt sinking her delicate claws into his flesh – or perhaps it was a female, a virgin, most likely? Valerica shook her head, no, the creature had been male and, to her annoyance, she smelled the spilled, corrupted blood of Harkon nearby – her prey had been _his_ meal.

She snarled in jealousy and covered the blood covetously. With a shuddering breath she pictured her claws dancing down her unknown, would-be prey's body, softly, painlessly streaming his sanguine, ruby liquid down with such ease that he would _want_ it as much as she did. The heat in her returned, her heart beat again, and it was-

Gone. All gone.

Her scream tore at the air. Her claw gouged out the saliva soaked stone and her shame began to seep in. What had she just _done?_ What had she been _reduced_ to? Because of scraps, mere scraps. _Intoxicating_. Maddening. _Undeniable_ scraps.

Valerica's claws began to shrink and morph back into her fingers. Her eyes returned to their normal, dying ember pinpoints, and her stomach ached. She heaved in air as her heart stayed silent and, to her frustration, the unfamiliar heat began to cool with the rest of her dead body.

"Control yourself," she whispered. "This is beneath you."

Coolly, she observed the collection of bones that littered the shrine to distract herself. The amount of disappointment at noting that whatever creature had been here had been dead for a very long time, sucked dry and stripped bare, did not help the feeling in her stomach, or her creeping longing for heat.

 _Harkon_ had no doubt feasted upon him. She could not blame him and tried to tear her mind away but couldn't, her tastebuds madly coveting the flavor she knew she'd never get again.

Harkon… Harkon could have kept the creature _alive_. It was without a doubt _special, rare,_ Valerica had never experienced such a thing before. Its blood had been fresh as if recently spilled while the other scents nearby, even the Dragonborn's urea, had faded. Harkon _could have_ had him sire children, could have _harvested_ it. Instead he consumed the creature and cast him away like an apple core.

Valerica snarled. He _deserved_ to soak in the piss of his killer.

…Or, she blinked, or perhaps… The creature had gotten away in the _raid!_

Her fangs extended so suddenly at the thought that when she bit her lip, her canine completely pierced her bottom lip. She gently plucked the perforated flesh from her tooth and licked up the small amount of blood, then spit it out in disgust. It was like mud.

"Acting like a _fledgling…"_ she cursed.

Valerica now realized she now had a problem. This haze would only distract her, and she needed a meal. She wondered if it would taste like dirt in comparison as well, but she had no choice now. Her tastebuds had reawakened to a symphony and needed one in return, even if it was an off-score, poorly composed one.

…But if she managed to find out just _what_ type of creature had such a unique bloodtype…

Hurriedly, Valerica left the shrine and made for her study. It would be a difficult thing, searching through her books for any mention of such a creature, but it would be worth it. And when she did find it, when she found _him,_ assuming he survived and was in fact saved by Shepard's evidently contagious moral compass, she _would not let him go._ He would not _want_ to leave, would not want for _anything_ when she found him.

Unlike Harkon. He really did deserved to get pissed on.

And Shepard was to thank for all of this. Valerica supposed he was due for a… letter of gratitude. That _is_ what all the hero types sought, yes? And gold, she supposed. And a 'princess', but Serana was with him. Perhaps a _potion_ or a _weapon,_ all things which the Dawnguard had raided. However, if, and dare she to even think of it, _when_ she found this delectable man, Shepard would get his thanks.

He had saved Serana, after all, and that was all that _truly_ mattered.

* * *

Deciding that it was best to get the matter of etiquette out of the way, Valerica had started on her letter. At the same time she sent for one of Skyrim's Couriers by an animated thrall of hers, intent on working on what was sure to be a simple task while she waited, as well as sating her hunger. The mysterious blood still haunted her and with it was an almost random haze of bloodlust that proved to be more of a trial than she thought possible. It had been millennia since she had a truly proper meal – having been given what was essentially the scarcest amount of a gourmet dish and then left with nothing proved to be a test to her prodigious willpower as it struggled to keep her sane.

Luckily, there was an elven encampment nearby. Valerica's senses were so wired and keen because of her hunger that, by the time the next night had fallen, she could smell every last one of them on the wind even at such a distance. She drained them all in her sleep, sampling them like mere snacks.

In comparison to the gourmet meal she had been subjected to, they tasted pathetic, but a meal was a meal and Valerica was never one to waste a meal.

She didn't drain them completely either, knowing that subtlety was best to ensure that she had as much to eat as she needed, and while she wasn't one for over eating, having a few spare meals on hand was always preferable. To wit, she enlisted a handful of the elves as her own personal thralls, though let them keep most of their minds. While she studied and waited for the Courier it amused her to see them act as if they had any actual power even as they obediently went to cleaning the walls and floors as if they wanted to.

The dreary morning the Courier finally arrived, Valerica had been reading at one of the upper balconies and spared a brief glance outside the castle walls to see the dismal, and altogether vampiric sight of the local weather. There was a boat at her recently constructed dock, and with it, a new thrum of blood that made her raise a single eyebrow.

Feeling a little pleased that the Courier had taken less than three days to arrive, she closed the book, which unfortunately was less pleasing. However it was not the book she had been reading, it was the letter inside of it that had her attention.

Her endeavors to find any sort of mention of creatures with intoxicating blood had yielded little to no results beyond references to notes written by fledgling vampires who thought blood was the best taste since sliced bread. Valerica wasn't surprised – 'Creatures of interest for Blood-Drinkers' and 'Epicurean's Digest for Vampires' weren't high in demand publications. Necromancers had more public support.

But, she had found something in the encampment. A letter being held by the head elf, something called a 'Thalmor', as evidence sent from a spy of theirs out in Skyrim. As it so happened, recently one of the towns had been 'culled' by a vampire attack that had begun on the inside. People were questioned, people were 'taken in for further questioning', and houses were raided. There, they found the notes of one such vampire known only by the initials _S.S._ dating back to just after the week she returned from the Soul Cairn _._

And it was that same letter Valerica couldn't help but read over and over again.

* * *

 _I smell him today,_ S.S had written. _He is tall, perhaps of Breton descent, though far, far too tall. Perhaps Nordic? The cold does not bother him. Or perhaps he is a bit of a Redguard – though lighter. I never have the capacity of mind to ask when he's near – it is all I can do to keep my teeth to myself and my mouth shut, sometimes – and now I've known him for so long that it seems almost rude to ask._

 _It has been some time since I've seen him; his talent in the art has become raw since, his eyes keen. I do not make contact with them, as sharp as they are, lest he find out. I am quick to call him a fool and act as if I have better things to do as I always do, but the matters I dally with are trivial and he has become astute._

 _To him I am a curt, librarian like Breton female, but his eyes still linger. Does he suspect? Or is it a… particular male fondness? Doubtful. There can be no other reason for my robes hide much, even my mouth, though I do not think I have much to hide. He has had worse women, I suppose. I refuse to be bothered with such thoughts._

 _I've learned to control myself, though it is an insult that I had to relearn this, as if I were a fledgling again. At our first meeting, to distract myself from claiming him and drinking of him in my quarters, I put him on the trail of some of my kind who thought they could come to_ my _home and feed on_ my _people. I have my priorities, after all._

 _I must admit, I was worried he would fail and they would have him instead. Truthfully, it kept me awake – I almost sent guards when he did not return. But he did, albeit injured and visibly worse for wear, his clothes were… covered in blood, his blood, and oh, how it smelled… The guards and cleaning staff audibly objected to it, and he smiled at me and it was…_

 _I quickly offered to teach him about Illusion magic in return – and to get him a change of clothes from Radiant Raiment, though I made sure to have him get the order himself – I cannot be seen with him. If for no other reason than because he was almost entirely ignorant of magic in the first place. How he managed to rid an entire nest with nothing but his swordarm is beyond me, but Divine's help me if I can't stop thinking about it._

 _Our lessons continued, albeit over long periods. Sadly, Solitude is hardly a place he stops with any sort of frequency. He is a hunter by appearance and nature and the lands here are scarce of game, I would know._

 _Each time we meet I lay a trail of crumbs for him to follow, clues that I would like to see him… elsewhere. He is not the most unattractive man, for certain, but each time he fails to notice._

 _At first I dared to influence him with magic, but it failed. When we did meet, I noticed his intelligence, his talent in the art has increased by leaps and bounds – he is a prodigy and doesn't seem to realize it. If it were humility it would be novel, but I think it's pure ignorance. It is almost_ _ **insulting**_ _, even more so as a Breton, yet… endearing._

 _He's deigned to enlist as an officer in this waste of a war – is salt on the wound – though he has the sense to charge them for it without reserve. I am so proud._

 _Soon he'll outstrip even myself. I doubt I have the ability, or the sheer shortsightedness, to try and influence him now. Though should he exceed me, I don't worry about being outmoded and cast aside. He is… human, in the 'best' sense. I seem to have managed to earn my place as one of his 'friends'. I find it… cute, if marginally unsatisfying. He is a creature unlike any I have ever met before. A human in appearance, but his blood is not human. I still have his clothes, his scent. His blood does not rot, does not dry or coagulate or lose its luster. It is immortal._

 _Hm, immortal blood, for once that term has use other than a dull account of an old vampire._

 _Regardless, it is true. It is also… addictive, I can smell him from a considerable distance whenever he arrives. It seizes my senses and- it is all I can do to not subjugate him and force him to live out his days as my personal 'aide'. My collection of his essence dwindles but my hunger grows, and the blood of Solitude's prisoners disgusts me in comparison._

 _C, S.,_ S.S. referred to her and Valerica's mutual prey, _I fear I will go mad with hunger, or eventually starve because of him._ _I loathe him. I_ _ **crave**_ _him._

 _I long to taste him again._

* * *

The entry had recently been seized by the Thalmor and it was pure luck that Valerica had descended upon them before they sent their patrol out to investigate. Her purpose was renewed – _he had escaped._ Signs pointed to him having been abducted by one of Harkon's minion's, _and_ he appeared to be a fighter. For a normal man to defeat a single vampire, let alone an entire _nest…_

Valerica had begun to salivate. ' _Oh, this is just marvelous.'_

She felt a sense of not-quite camaraderie with S.S as well as understanding. No doubt her fellow vampire was suffering even worse withdrawal than Valerica herself. The ancient vampire almost pitied her, but S.S professed to have a stash of this man's blood, and for that Valerica was at a disadvantage. If she didn't manage to find anything else on him, she would have to visit S.S. in Solitude, either for information, or to… share, if it came to that.

It spoke of S.S. that while she lived undercover in a city she had not been seen. She was powerful, but that she hadn't managed to claim him it was telling. Valerica had no doubt she possessed the ability to, being millennia her fellow vampire's senior, but she wasn't so old for being brash.

Before she knocked on another of her kind's door – it was rude to do – Valerica began deciphering what she could from the letter _._ C, S., as opposed to S.S., meant that they weren't initials. Given that they succeeded the mention of his place in whatever army Skyrim had now, 'C' could stand for 'Commander', or perhaps 'colonel'. What the 'S' stood for was anyone's guess, but Valerica's search was narrowed considerably.

For that, Valerica's spirits were high. Her hunger was still unsatisfied, but fortunately for the Courier they faced no threat of being consumed – they would taste like garbage anyway.

Tearing herself away from the letter, Valerica elegantly walked down to the front entrance, opened the door, and stepped outside into the cool morning air.

The first of her thralls, and the most audibly displeased, was here. The tall Altmer was abrasive and a proud racist, but she amused the vampire with her stubbornness. She actually believed she was capable of overthrowing Valerica's influence, and for that Valerica let her keep her stubbornness. She affectionately named her 'First'. This did not help hear standing with her fellow Thalmor.

Valerica stepped outside and watched as the Courier exited the small boat and neared closer. It became readily obvious that it was a male, or an unfortunate female. The Courier jogged up the bridge, barely stopping as they passed the gargoyles, something that usually made impression on mortals. She wondered if this was one of the dumber ones.

As they neared closer, Valerica found she was in for another surprise. The Courier was an Orc. That… was unexpected.

Not that she had anything _against_ Orcs in general. They were all food to her. But the scent of books an incense, a library, followed him. That was something she hadn't expected to accompany an Orc.

Lankier than the usual Orsimer, he wore a small, thin hood over his head and clothes that weren't the best for the cold. Upon seeing Valerica and her thrall he paused, looked between the two, up at the castle and the iron gate that separated them, and then behind him.

He sighed. "Well, this could be bad."

"Wonderful, Valerica's thrall gave a sigh of her own. "A _pig_ child, _"_ she said dispassionately.

If the Courier minded the slur in any way, he didn't show it. Given how he dimly realized that the gargoyles, the castle, and Valerica herself in all of their pale, macabre glory, meant something less than safe, the vampire was willing to bet the words hadn't sunk in yet.

"I'm here to pick up a letter," the Orc said carefully, sparing a single glance at First.

The Altmer stepped forward and looked down on him, though just barely. He was tall for an Orc. Valerica watched, amused.

He sighed. "Look, lady, I'm just here to pick up a message. Don't want to get into a discussion of Merian race issues with ya, alright?"

The First's lips peeled back in disgust. " _You_ dare consider yourself Mer _?"_ She asked softly. It was quickly becoming apparent to Valerica that her racism wasn't simply aimed at humans, or those that used to be human, and that was novel.

"I'm an Orc. 'Nother word for Orsimer _. Mer,"_ the Courier said gruffly.

"It is another word for _pig,"_ First corrected, bluntly. "Children of pigs. _Pig children."_

"Lady I'm just trying to do my job," he said, and turned his gaze to Valerica. "Your employee is very charmin'."

"Cattle," Valerica corrected.

" _I…_ am a _Thalmor Justiciar,"_ First managed to grit out, and Valerica noticed with no interest that she was again trying to fight her will. "I am _no one's_ employee! Or cattle!"

"…You're in service to the Thalmor," the Orc interjected. "If you're not an employee, you're a servant. If not that-"

"I am a _soldier!"_ First squawked back, her voice breaking. She quickly seemed intent on wrangling his neck. The Orc was summarily unimpressed.

"Which is…?" he replied, once again politely, and the First choked on her own words.

" _Shut up!"_

Valerica's rolled her eyes. "An excellent idea."

She snapped her fingers and First's lips closed tightly, her body going rigid. She glared hatefully at the vampire but Valerica didn't bother to spare her the slightest bit of attention even as the thrall began to retreat back into the castle against her own will.

Valerica then turned to the Orc only to find him slowly, methodically backing away, still despite the snow collecting on his shoulders and head. He was visibly coming to terms with the fact that his services had been rendered by a vampire.

"I do not have the message written just yet," the vampire said coolly. "It will be finished soon. Come."

With one hand she opened the gate and turned to the castle doors. It became clawed and sickly grey, and Valerica casually inspected the knife-sharp points of her fingers, brushing away the bits of rust. "If you wish, you can rest in the dining area while I write."

The Orc pursed his lips, something Valerica didn't think possible with tusks coming from the bottom of his mouth. "…You're supposed to have the message written _beforehand,"_ he said carefully.

Valerica turned back to him. "Excuse me?"

"Usually when we're called upon to deliver, the messages are already written," the Orc elaborated. "Bit of an unwritten rule."

"Do you usually receive patronage from someone like me?"

The Orc swallowed again. "…No."

"Then your rules will do you no good. Come," she said, and turned once more. "Or don't, and freeze to death. I'll make sure to leave your payment on your corpse before I reanimate you and send you off. I do hope you have your affairs in order."

Without waiting, Valerica walked into the castle.

"…Aw hell, I'm gonna die today," the Courier said seconds later, and followed her.

* * *

" _Shepard Trevelyan,_ _I thank you for your help and keeping my daughter safe. Valerica Volkhiar,"_ the letter said. Valerica gave it a once over before nodding, satisfied.

Her satisfaction dimmed somewhat when, as she stepped down from her study, she heard First's grating voice. "Consider it an honor to be allowed to eat in our presence,"The thrall's sneer was covered by apathy, but Valerica needed no guessing to know who she was speaking to.

At the large table in the dining hall sat the Courier, a good seven seats away from Valerica's thralls. First was no better and looked similarly isolated, though she didn't show it.

The dining hall was almost a picture of cleanliness; the third, second, and fourth thralls had been worked to exhaustion cleaning up the aftermath of the Dawnguard's raid. The bloodstains and destroyed furniture were gone, as were the piles of dust from Valerica's kin. They had earned their rest, she supposed, and allowed them to eat a delightful dish of fish and… whatever else she had deigned to capture, kill, and make them cook. Afterward, they all but fell on top of each other, asleep at the table.

"This of course is _nothing_ in comparison to the conditions under which Elenwen herself eats," First reached for a goblet of aged wine, only to catch Valerica's eye as she walked down from the study. She grimaced and pushed the drink away as if someone spit in it. "Do you even _know_ about Elenwen? What am I saying, of course you don't."

The Courier took his own goblet and began to drink while leveling her with a stare. He continued to look at her and drink until the goblet was empty, only to belch loudly and pour himself some more, visibly ambivalent.

"Pig."

"Auluiin," another of the thralls groaned – Valerica supposed it was the Fourth. She hadn't named her, but decided that Fourth was a good name. "Please, shut. _Up."_

Auluiin frowned. "He is a pig. It was an observation."

"Then your ability to state the obvious is truly magnificent, _"_ Fourth drawled, causing First to look away. "If it lets me sleep, let him be a pig. He has not said a _word_ to you so please, be blessedly silent? _"_

Seeing Valerica, the Courier rose from his seat as she stepped down, both deciding to ignore the in-house squabble between the thralls. Auluiin looked at him like it was his fault.

"You've thawed," Valerica said.

He gave a slight nod. "Is it done?"

She handed him the letter, only to frown at her outstretched hand. "It… is."

"…Doesn't sound like it," the Orc said, then quickly added, "I can wait."

"It is done."

The Orc took the letter with a careful hand and held it up. "May I?" He asked, flipping it open.

Valerica raised a brow. "You think you can help me?"

"I… think I'm paid to," he said. "…I attended the Bard's college in Solitude," he grunted. "I know how to write a letter."

Valerica's eyes widened. _"Solitude,"_ she whispered. The name was enough to make her salivate as she thought of C,S. "As do I," Valerica said, attempting to appear nonplussed. As the Orc began to read the letter, she asked, "Tell me, do you know of anyone by the initials _S.S.?"_

The Orc paused, though at what Valerica wasn't sure. "…I- Shepard?" he asked more than said. Valerica looked at him with wide eyes. " _You_ know Commander _Shepard?"_

Immediately relieved that the letter she had read wasn't written by the fool that saved her daughter as well as her prey, Valerica nodded. It wasn't until a second later that what the Orc said sunk in. " _Commander?"_ She asked, stepping in close. "That fool is a _Commander?"_

The Orc nodded. "…He saved my life. Hell, he saved all of Solitude's life. Potema, dragons… vampires, but saved mine personally."

Valerica repressed the growing, bad feeling in her stomach. _C, S…_ Commander… Shepard? No, it couldn't be. 'S' was obviously the last name. Shepard was that fool's first.

"Yes, it seems to be an ongoing trend with him…" she trailed off. "Tell me, do you know of any officer in Solitude whose last name begins with an 'S'?"

The Orc considered it. "…No. There's Commander Shepard, but-"

" _I do not care about Shepard,"_ the vampire quickly said.

"Right …If anyone would know, though, he would." He looked at the letter again. "He's pretty well respected. He'd probably know."

Valerica bit her lip. Asking Shepard for anything was hardly something she wanted to do. She didn't imagine he'd be too forthcoming if she asked about finding a boy whose blood was, _"Positively divine,"_ either.

"Thank you," she said. "So, the letter? Do you find it satisfactory?" She barely kept the sarcasm from her voice.

The Orc looked from the letter to her, and back to the letter. "Yeah, very succinct," he said. "But, you say he protected your daughter?" Valerica nodded. "Maybe I'm coming from a different place since he my life and my home, but… don't ya think he deserves a bit more respect?" The Courier paused. "He saved your family. Family's all ya got."

' _He saved the best meal I have ever tasted,'_ the vampire thought.

"… _What_ do you propose?" Her tone spoke clearly of how much she disliked this idea, but the Courier did have a point. Shepard had done her a great favor – the last she could do was write a better thanks.

"Thanking him in person would be best," the Orc said, Valerica scowled. "He did protect your daughter's life."

"Unlife," Valerica corrected, though hated herself for it almost immediately – that was something Shepard would have said.

"Right," the Orc said, sounding awkward. He handed her the letter back. "If he already knows how ya feel then your presence won't change much," he said, "but still, he saved your daughter."

"I am _well aware."_ Valerica was more aware of the fact that Shepard had saved her too, though not from a constant threat of death, or sacrifice, the threat of atrophy of the mind was hardly preferable. She was also aware of the fact that not once had she seen her daughter since she had come back to Tamriel. If nothing else, this would be a way to remerge back into Serana's life – they had hardly parted on the best of terms.

Valerica pinched her nose. "What is your name?"

"Are you gonna-"

"No, I will _not_ eatyou, boy. Give me your name so I know who to request in the future, should I have need of a Courier," she said. "You've done me a service I did not realize I needed."

He put his hands up. "Ya don't need to pay me. I- I haven't done anything," he said, and after a moment, looked at a bottle of wine. "Though another bottle would be good."

Valerica ignored him. "You will be paid," she said with a tone that brook no argument. "You are right… To the man who saved my child, I owe at least my presence. Now, I ask you again: your name?"

"…Jin," he said.

Valerica nodded. "In return for your services, Jin, I'm willing to pay a hefty fee-"

"That's not necessary."

"It will be done regardless." Valerica continued, waving at him dismissively, "Is a thousand septims satisfactory?"

The Orc's eyes bulged. "That's over the top," he warned. "I don't-"

"Then consider it as payment for what you will do for me." Valerica turned toward her thralls, Auluiin in particular, and smiled. "In the short time you have been here, you have shown me more respect than my possessions have." It wasn't entirely true, Fourth and the rest were smart enough not to deliberately fight against her for the most part, but Auluiin was a special kind of stupid.

"I don't think that's quite right. Do you?" She asked, turning back to him.

"I-" Jin started. He shook his head.

"You will teach them then, Jin," Valerica said, nodding. "You say you studied at your… Bard's… College? Show them the tact and manners you've no doubt learned." Jin couldn't tell if she was kidding or not. The Orc figured it was a good idea to think all vampires were completely serious about everything.

"I will not bow down before him!" Auluiin shouted, only to sit down when Valerica looked at her, turned her nose up slightly, and motioned with her hand. " _I will not_."

Valerica smiled. "You will have no choice. Consider it a warning," she said, baring her teeth. "Respect _breeds_ respect, thrall. And you have less respect than someone you call a pig. You will obey him."

Auluiin made a strangled noise but couldn't open her mouth. Valerica turned to the Orc again. "You however, have proven to be insightful. Not so stupid that I would have to hunt you down and drink of you to a husk if you decide to betray my trust by, say, absconding with any of my things." She inspected her fingernails on the hand that slowly turned into a sickly grey, and the sharp nails that hung from it. She looked up, her eyes blackened with burning dots in the middle. "But you are obviously not that stupid," she repeated.

"My da' raised me good and smart enough. …He was Breton," he said stolidly.

Valerica thought of S.S. and blinked. "…Good. While I am gone, you will be in charge of the castle. Do not go into the lower levels. You may help yourself to… whatever drink and food you can find here," she waved airily.

Valerica walked past him without another word. The eyes in the room watched as she walked to the door, opened it, and stepped in front of the gates. She turned and bid a final, "Teach them well!" before lifting the gate and stepping beneath it.

"Do you know what they say about Orcs?"Auluiin whispered. "We're going to wish we were dead."

Jin the Orc, who had tried to be friendly, rubbed his forehead. "I was just trying to do my job."

* * *

 **Kind of steamy. More OCs! Sorry it's taken so long to update my stories. Kind of in a bad place, real life wise. The next chapter, whenever, is likely going to be with Serana, or Shepard. Hope you enjoyed!  
**


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